Mon Seul Desir
by yasasif
Summary: Henri L'Eclair wasn't expecting to feel this way towards the girl who first offered him a red silk rose. (Begins by elaborating on scenes from the show then becomes more original)
1. Chapter 1

It was silly, Henri knew, to have everything clear in his mind apart from the actual focus of the window; usually he started with the centre and worked outwards from there, layering image upon image as he created a snapshot of a miniature world but there was something about this which defeated him. Of course he knew, really, that if it defeated him then the answer was unlikely to be found with anyone else on the floor - they were paid, after all, to serve and not to think - but he couldn't help himself. Ideas often came from the strangest of places and he had already borrowed various items from the Accessories department that morning; one more thing couldn't hurt.

He wasn't surprised, therefore, when Miss Mardle told him that she wasn't going to do his job for him; what did surprise him, however, was the young girl who proffered a red silk rose and a short speech about love. If he hadn't known better, Henri would almost have thought that she was confessing her love for him right there; he did know better though and he also knew of the differences between English and French girls. Her innocence was clearly visible in the blue eyes which flickered up to him intermittently as she mumbled about lover's gifts and in a moment of madness he was almost tempted to hand the rose back to her, to tell her that it was his lover's gift to her.

Instead he smiled and replied, "I'll think about it," before walking away.

After that it was almost impossible to escape her; everywhere he looked he could see her, smiling as she served customers, going above and beyond what she had to do as she helped Miss Mardle, studiously ignoring the snide remarks which the other girls directed at her… Miss Towler, as he had discovered her name was, was everywhere. Or perhaps she was the only thing he saw because she was the only thing he looked at. Certainly he seemed to be near the Accessories department more often than he thought he really needed to be; he could almost certainly find some of the things he asked for from different places. Henri had no idea why he was so intrigued by her; the only thing his scattered mind could offer up was that he was so surprised to discover that spark, that tiny flicker of potential, in someone who would normally be utterly overlooked that he wanted to see more. She was different to any other girl he had met, artless and sweet; he wondered once, hearing the girls discussing something meaningless, how she managed to stay so untouched by the catty remarks which the girl with a weaselly face - Kitty, he remembered her being called once - directed at her.

He had spent the past few days locked away in his office as he devised the windows for the new cosmetics department which Harry wanted; he had been wracking his brains for days and once had idly wondered whether he could steal Miss Towler - surely she could recreate her success again? He had tucked his hands in his waistcoat pocket and strolled around the floor, pretending to be looking for materials which he could pilfer for the displays as he instead looked for the girl he could steal; after almost half an hour and so many stops at Accessories that he was running out of items that he could claim he needed to examine he gave up and retreated to his den. She wasn't there and he would have to do without her.

It took him by surprise then when he wandered out once the window was finished to look at what Harry had done to the floor and he saw her walking past the perfumes. She moved past them slowly enough that he was able to approach her before she left and to ask her about it and, as she looked up at him and laughed at herself, saying, "I'd be scared to touch them," he saw the bruise which had blossomed across her face. Only when her beauty had been marred did he realise how pure it had been beforehand, how her pale unblemished skin matched the purity he imagined drenched her soul and he almost recoiled in anger. He longed to ask her who had done such a terrible thing to her, to find him and punish him for it - no one should ever treat a woman that way, let alone his Miss Towler - but he didn't. He had some manners after all so instead he asked, "Do you wear scent?"

Miss Towler inclined her head slightly and breathed, "Yardley Lavender," her voice husky, as if she was embarrassed at revealing this secret to him. Henri, before he knew what he was doing and before he could stop himself, leaned in, desperate to press his nose to her neck and feel the heat radiate off her body, to know that she was a real person after all and not some ephemeral angel that flickered in and out of existence when it suited her; before he could do more than move his head forward she was called away and he strode off to his office, snapping at the boy who asked him about his hoarding of the silk.


	2. Chapter 2

"I have a proposition for you," he said, still smiling at the thought of her twirling around in the bright red hat. It was such an enchanting picture that he found himself wondering whether he could throw money at her feet and shower her in beautiful goods, worshipping at her feet as if she was an ancient goddess; he would, Henri realised, like to see her dressed up, out of her plain black dress and then, as he led her through to the small room which he had commandeered for this enterprise, he wondered what she would look like out of everything and he nearly groaned; Miss Towler, as he had realised rather quickly, was not to be thought of like that for no reason other than that she was too good for it. It would, Henri firmly told himself, debase her to view her like that.

It didn't mean he didn't want to though.

As she sat beside him thumbing through the book of flowers which he had handed to her three days ago he caught a whiff of the scent she wore; it was delicate and sweet, so faint as to be almost imaginary and he sighed. It was so… _her _and really, he wanted to smell it more, to keep her beside him for longer.

She interrupted his reverie with a quiet cough and he looked up questioningly. "Lily of the Valley," she suggested and he grinned. "Perfect." With a flick of his fingers one of the errand boys was dispatched to find some at a local stall and Henri smiled again. He had known the trust which he put in her wouldn't be misplaced.

Henri had been drawing them for a while before she broke the silence which hung between them. "My mother used to pick these in the country," she said, her face clouding over as she eyed the flowers.

"Perhaps that is why you thought of them," he answered, watching her intently before quirking his lips into a little smile. The small bunch of flowers reminded him of something else too and he explained the French tradition to her, remembering the bunches and bunches he had showered upon Valerie each year as they had slowly grown from children who didn't quite understand why people did it into sweethearts. Even as he remembered this he marvelled the connotations something so simple had, and at how easy it was to change them even when they had been fixed for years.

"Are you going to show it to Mr Selfridge?" she asked and Henri frowned. Harry knew nothing about perfume and as soon as he showed it to him he was accepting that the scent was finished; as soon as their work was finished Miss Towler would return to Accessories and he didn't want that. There was also the matter of the advertising; Henri knew that Harry wanted to use Ellen Love and his very soul recoiled at the thought. Ellen was everything that the perfume, and by extension Miss Towler, was not and he didn't want his image of these wonderful days to be tainted by her vulgarity.

That evening he prepared to go to Harry - he couldn't really put it off any longer - so he packed up various images and straightened his jacket.

"Good luck," Miss Towler murmured as she shuffled past him, squeezing through the tiny space which still remained between him and the door.

"I don't need luck Miss Towler," he smirked, "I know he's going to love it." She cracked a smile and glanced down at the floor then at her hands quickly before saying, "It was lovely to work with you Mr Leclair. It was very interesting."

"You can call me Henri if you want," he shrugged, shattering all the rules he had established both here and throughout his entire working career. The creature opposite him blushed and shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Forgive me, I just thought… we have worked together on this and yet you don't know my name. This perfume is our project, our masterpiece. We are more than just fellow workers now," he chuckled, trying desperately to erase his mistake.

She swallowed and he worried that he'd said the wrong thing, that by telling her his name he had committed an irrevocable sin and lost ground which could never be gained back again; in the endless moment that she held his gaze for before she spoke he could feel himself begin to panic. "Agnes," she whispered as she fiddled with her skirts, suddenly looking anywhere but at Henri. "If we're… well… Goodnight Mr Leclair," she mumbled before hurrying away, leaving him gazing after her.

'Lamb of God', he thought absentmindedly as he headed towards the lift: the pure girl named after the purest lamb in history. The English had such horrible names and yet, for once, he liked it.

He could barely keep from cheering when Harry agreed the other design, the design without the taint of Ellen Love. He would make a window for it, would fill it with love and Lily of the Valley; it was to be Agnes' window, even if she didn't know it.

It would be unforgettable, just as she too was.

After the success of their perfume he started stealing her more and more until eventually not a day went by that he didn't ask for her help or for her to find him something. Much of the time he knew exactly what he wanted, had already got an image in his head, but he just wanted a second opinion. Her opinion. Other times he was intrigued to see what she would do if she were in his position and, as the days passed, he learnt that she had a natural talent for it. Perhaps, he thought one night as he tossed and turned under the sheets of his bed, if he borrowed her enough then he could have her moved permanently to work under him - she showed a lot of promise and he wasn't keen to let it be wasted or to let her go.

And then one day, after the disaster of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's visit, she vanished. She had quit, he knew it - Harry would never fire her, not after what happened with his father, and his suspicions were confirmed when she didn't turn up for nearly two weeks' work; she was proud and even this fatal flaw, which - were there any possibility of something happening between them - would be what kept them apart, was a trait Henri liked in her. At first he had been curious about her, had wondered how she would react and whether she would show the potential which she had once exhibited again and again but, as he had come to know her, he had found her more and more beautiful and more and more interesting. It was good, he decided eventually, that she had gone. He had been in danger of breaking the promise he had made to himself that he would not touch her; now she was safely out of the way, his temptation had been removed, and, no matter how much it hurt, he could focus on his work.

Except he couldn't really because Miss Towler wasn't there.

"What has gotten into him these days?" Mr Grove asked Mr Crabbe one afternoon as Henri marched past them, his face set into a petulant pout and a cigarette clamped firmly between his lips.

"Goodness knows," Mr Crabbe replied, "stress I suppose. This motor car window that Mr Selfridge wants is extravagant in the extreme."

It was a completely ordinary day when Agnes returned except that, for Henri, the sun seemed to shine a little bit brighter and everything seemed to be that little bit more beautiful. Suddenly all was right with the world and he beamed at her when he saw her on the floor that morning; he had no idea what had happened but he was tempted to seize her in a hug or to place his hands on her hips and swing her round in the air before planting a kiss right on her lips. He spent the rest of the day nearly bouncing around from room to room as he worked. He wasted no time in stealing her again, spiriting her down to the cellar where the car was held and sharing his ideas with her. In return she offered her image of the window and he grinned, ecstatic at having her back. When she began to tell him how Harry had visited her he reminded himself to thank his friend; he moved lithely around the car, wondering if this could be the moment when everything he had sworn not to do would be broken, and Agnes started talking about how Harry was the best man alive and, with a grin, she told Henri how he had convinced her father to leave town. Henri, although he was happy that she was happy, couldn't help but frown; not only had the waiter been faster than him to attack her father but now his best friend had managed to get rid of him permanently; Henri wasn't stupid, he knew that the gratitude those deeds would inspire would put him behind the two men in her esteem. He withdrew, almost tempted to ask her why he wasn't the best man alive but his half joke went unsaid. Harry had brought her back for a reason and it wasn't because he knew that Henri wanted her back; there was something else and Henri knew it. "The world is opening up to you," he said sadly as he realised that no matter what he could offer it would pale in comparison to the opportunities she was about to have. She didn't like him as anything more than a mentor.

In a few months Agnes Towler would likely be out of his reach forever.


	3. Chapter 3

He was entranced by Agnes' care for Selfridge Jr. and he couldn't help but wonder what she would look like as a mother, with two or three miniature versions of herself clinging onto her skirts. The image delighted him as they walked back towards the store and yet it saddened him too because he knew, no matter how desperate he might be for the opposite to be true, they could never be his. "Maybe you should marry and have babies," he suggested, wondering whether she would pick up on the unacknowledged desire which was trying to force its way out through his words: maybe we should marry and have babies.

And then she said no and his heart sank because he knew that no matter how much she might like children, if she said no she most likely meant it. Even though she was sitting beside him, wrapped in the scarf which he had given her - and which he was right to give her because the colour suited her perfectly and she wore it a thousand times better than the mannikin could - he couldn't rid himself of the knowledge that she wasn't meant for him.

Agnes tried not to look at him as they talked, tried not to imagine how it would feel to have Henri as a husband, to wake up to him every morning and to come home to little boys with his eyes running around the house. That dream, that future, was for Valerie and not for her and yet she couldn't help but wonder who could turn him down; Valerie, in her opinion, was undeserving of the wonderful man who was sitting beside her, the heat of his body permeating the cold London air and warming one side of her body slightly, and she nearly asked him what it was about her which kept him going back, even when she lived on the other side of the world, even when it must cause much more pain than he needed in his life, than he deserved.

He couldn't help but ask, couldn't help but wonder whether the rumours, the whispers, he had heard while working were true; he wanted to hear it from her own mouth, for Agnes herself to admit to liking that waiter, to thinking that there could be something more between them. He wouldn't believe it until he heard it from her mouth because he knew that he could trust her, knew too about how desperate the waiter was for there to be something between him and the girl currently sitting beside Henri with his heart in her hands and his mood attached to her smile. When she said that there was 'someone' his heart sank, as if she had crushed it in those delicate hands which even now sat folded in her lap. The fact that she was unsure about him meant nothing to Henri - if he mattered enough to be referred to then Agnes was his. Of course Agnes didn't see, too busy was she looking at the ground, the frown which flitted across Henri's face at that thought; if any two people in the world were the least deserving of her, in Henri's opinion, it would be her father and the waiter. In a way it made it easier though, because if she wanted to be with someone else then he could respect that, could use that to reinforce every reason in his mind why he shouldn't touch her, shouldn't take her in his arms and kiss her as passionately as he had longed to do for weeks now.

When Henri's reply to her question about his French friend was that she was in New York Agnes knew, in her heart, that that meant he would be with her if he could and she blinked, begging herself not to cry. It made no sense, she reasoned, for him to feel anything towards her at all but she had hoped… he was so kind and sophisticated and he had given her the wonderful scarf which she now wore… But then, she supposed, all French men must treat women like that so she mustn't show any pain. After all he wasn't hers. He continued on to talk about a girl from England though as she wondered who it could be; she couldn't, off the top of her head, think of anyone who fitted the description of ingenue, weak though her French might be. Doris perhaps, she thought, although there was no reason why it should be someone at the store. Henri surely had a life outside his work and it was likely that he spent his free hours flirting with elegant ladies in expensive clubs; maybe a girl who was coming out for her first Season had caught his eye and she swallowed, resisting the urge to run back to the store and hide herself away in some tiny corner where gloom would cling to her as surely as despair clung to her now.

And then, of course, the worst thing happened and Henri asked her what he should do. "Maybe wait for her?" she tried cautiously, wondering when she could let herself fall apart. Perhaps, if she was lucky, in that time the girl would move out of Henri's reach or he would change his mind; a wish less likely to be granted than that of inheriting a sudden fortune, Agnes knew. Even through the pain she almost laughed at the absurd idea that anyone would be scared away by him, that any girl in the world would be able to reject him. When he had told her, that day in the perfume room, that he had been rejected by his friend she had nearly blurted that out. He nodded and she almost smiled, glad that she had his approval once again. "I'm good at waiting," he replied as he gazed at her and Agnes nodded. As if there was anything he wasn't good at. He was wonderful at melting her insides and making her feel a hundred confused things at once and she tried to avoid speaking as they hurried back to the store.

It astonished him how easily Agnes came to him, how she silently trusted him and as Henri leaned forward wordlessly he was hit by the familiar smell of her like a visceral punch of desire. He wanted nothing more than to pull her to him but instead he plucked the piece of string out of her hair and had to content himself with wondering what she would look like with it down, flowing around her shoulders after he'd run his hands through it. Beautiful, he imagined as she flushed slightly and turned back to the mannikin she was assembling.

He had stayed behind later than usual, busying himself with tiny unnecessary jobs that didn't need to be done, changing things which were already perfect, as he waited for Agnes. Eventually though he had run out of things to do and so he began to pack up, taking that as slowly as possible as well and, when that was finished, he sighed and grabbed his coat.

It was like a call from Heaven when she asked for his help; even if he couldn't have her, spending time with her was nearly as good. He had discovered, during their time working together, that she was funny once she was unguarded and cleverer than she might seem behind her timidity, and he enjoyed just talking to her.

He rearranged the salmon scarf which he had grabbed from behind him, trying to ignore Agnes' proximity and the fact that they were completely alone. He had sworn to himself multiple times that he wouldn't touch her, no matter how much he wanted to; if he did anything with her and they were discovered then her job would be in jeopardy and with that her entire life. He liked her and respected her enough to have the thought of his being the reason for her being fired repulse him. Besides, a tiny part of his mind reminded him, if she was fired then he wouldn't be able to see her at work again and, if she was fired because of him, he doubted she'd want to see him anywhere outside the store. He was waiting for her, just like she had said, but he needed her to be the one to make the first move or he'd never forgive himself.

So fixedly was he concentrating on that, as his eyes met hers and he saw something unreadable in there, that when Agnes pressed her lips to his he was completely taken aback; she pulled away and he breathed her name, her real name, more to reinforce to himself who she was, that he shouldn't- All of his rational thought went out of the window as the tender feeling of her inexperienced lips lingered on his like a fleeting memory and he knew that he was done waiting.

Agnes was amazed by how beautiful her name sounded coming from him, the exotic way that he elided and softened the 'g'; it reminded her of how beautiful he made her feel without ever really doing anything, how he seemed to soften her just by looking at her, but she was embarrassed at what had come over her and she gazed at him as she tried to read what he felt in those enticing, mysterious eyes of his. Eventually, when she realised that he wasn't telling her didn't want to kiss her, she realised that she really might be his English girl - she had hoped it was true for a little while because, after their conversation in the park, he had become closer and closer to her and earlier, when he had pulled something out of her hair she had irrationally thought that maybe that was it, maybe he might kiss her. So instead, in a burst of bravery which was utterly out of character and which she didn't think she would repeat ever again she had kissed him and now she was waiting for his reaction like Marie Antoinette waited to be beheaded. "Did I do it all wrong… the approach?" she asked.

"I… think you did it just right," he replied, struggling to find the words to reply to her question. What he wanted to say was that she was incredible, that what had just happened was sublime, but instead his brain floundered. "But just to make sure…" He captured her head in one hand, sliding his fingers into her hair, and kissed her, marvelling at how breathtaking it felt to have her there with him reciprocating his feelings.


	4. Chapter 4

"Agnes," he said as they walked through the darkness, "do you want to have dinner with me?" She glanced up at him and nodded. "I can't… I can't do it tonight but yes, I'd like that very much." Henri smiled at her and stopped outside the station. "Are you sure you will be alright? I don't want-"

"Honestly Mr Leclair I'll be fine," she replied with a giggle, "I've gone home by myself every other night; this one isn't going to be any different."

"I know that Agnes I just thought… it would be nice. But please, call me Henri." She bit her lip at his request, worrying it under her front teeth until he raised his thumb and gently pulled it out from underneath them. "That's not good for them you know," he whispered. "You don't have to if you don't want to but it seems… strange to me. You English are always so formal," he laughed.

"I do want to," she stammered, "but it feels unnatural… I'm not used to this yet."

"Ah it's understandable," he said.

"And I have to remember to call you Mr Leclair at work," she giggled and he chuckled along with her. "That is true," he agreed. "You are likely to be confused, I am sure."

She gasped and smacked him lightly on the arm. "You're no gentlemen Mr Leclair!" she exclaimed. "Perhaps I ought to go."

"No Agnes please that's not necessary."

She sighed and shook her head. "I should go really… George will wonder where I am." He pouted and let go of her arm, brushing her cheek with a light kiss; the flush which rose to her face was visible even in the dim light behind her and he smiled gently at her. "Goodbye Mr… Henri," she breathed as he fought the urge to chuckle at how easily she was embarrassed by intimacy.

"Au revoir Agnes," he murmured, "I will see you tomorrow." She swallowed and jerked her head quickly before turning away from him and heading down into the crowd. As everyone swarmed around her, hurrying home after a hard day's work, she grinned to herself, wondering how she was ever going to get to sleep that night, especially knowing that she would see Henri tomorrow.

The next day it was nearly impossible for Agnes to see Henri without smiling and she found it even harder when to concentrate on her work when they were arranging mannikins beside each other; she worried, as the day went on, that Miss Ravilious might realise that something had happened - only that morning she had remarked, "Someone looks rather cheerful today," when Agnes had arrived and her eyes were sharp. It didn't help that Henri kept walking past, shooting covert glances at Agnes which made her duck her head, or strolling up to the counter and asking for something which he knew very well that they didn't have. They were extremely busy that day and so when he asked if he could borrow Miss Towler he received a stern glare and a firm no. "She's not here to do your job for you Mr Leclair," Miss Ravilious answered, "I'm sure you can go at least one day without her. I'm sure some people are starting to wonder how you managed before she arrived."

"That is a slight exaggeration, I am sure Miss Ravilious," he replied, his eyes flickering over to where Agnes stood serving a customer. "I don't quite have Miss Towler every day."

Miss Ravilious smiled and said, "It may be a slight exaggeration Mr Leclair but it does feel like she's with you more often than she is with me; and of course she is _supposed_ to be working in this department."

"My apologies Miss Ravilious," he said, "I just like to hear her thoughts when I make a new window. She has a remarkably good eye for the design and she seems to know exactly what I am thinking of even when I can't think of it myself. Sometimes she thinks of what I want before it has even entered my mind."

"Perhaps you should marry her and have her apply those prodigious talents to your home as well," she suggested. "I'm sure it would be very useful to have a wife who knew what you wanted for supper before you had even thought of breakfast. In all seriousness though I agree with you - she is very talented."

Henri chuckled and said, "Perhaps I should," with a laconic shrug before striding away again.

Miss Ravilious had left for a meeting with Mr Selfridge barely five minutes before Henri appeared and leant casually on the counter, a roguish smirk gracing his face. "Salut Miss Towler," he said when she finished serving the woman she was with.

"Mr Leclair," she smiled, "what can I do for you?"

He glanced around furtively before leaning even closer to her and asking, "Do you want to do something tonight? Maybe we could… er have dinner?" Her blue eyes never left his as she nodded and said, "Yes. I'd like that. Should we meet outside the doors, after work?" Henri grinned and rested his hand lightly on top of hers for a split second before turning away and returning to his work.

Later that evening, once the store had shut for the night, he waited outside the entrance to Selfridge's, his jacket drawn tight around himself as he inhaled the smoke of his cigarette and breathed out into the cold London air. He had just thrown it on the floor when the door opened and admitted Agnes, whose pink scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck; even under the brim of her hat and through the gloom he caught her smile as she saw him and, wasting no time, she looped her arm through his and they set off. "I thought," he explained as they walked through the streets, "that we could go to my house and I could cook for you."

"That sounds lovely," she replied demurely and he laughed. 'I doubt it," he said, "I am not a very good cook. But for you, Agnes, I will try my hardest."

She looked up at him and her eyes crinkled at the corners as she laughed. "I'm sure you're just being modest. I thought the French were the masters of cuisine."

Henri tilted his head and shook it, chuckling as he did so. "Well we will have to see I suppose."

When they arrived at his apartment he held the door open for her, ushering her inside out of the cold before flicking the lights on, and Agnes let out an involuntary gasp - his home was the most beautiful place she had ever been in and she craned her head around, taking in the rich fabrics with which the furniture was upholstered, the various paintings which hung on on the walls and the elegant items which cluttered the rooms, lending it an exotic feel even in the middle of London. There were things in his home which showed how much he had travelled, books in french and by famous American authors, pictures of Chicago and places he had been with Mr Selfridge, trinkets from Paris and from his childhood home and Agnes wanted to absorb it all. It was so interesting, this glimpse into the enigma which was Henri Leclair but it reinforced, as he led her into a sitting room and sat down beside her on a settee, the difference between their positions.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, stirring her from her thoughts.

"Oh yes, of course," she stuttered, "it's just… so different to where I live with George. It's so beautiful… like another world." Henri laughed and said, "I doubt that very much. It is a little messy in my opinion." After a while he stood up and headed towards the kitchen and Agnes, who felt uneasy sitting in his home without him being beside her, followed a little later; the rich smell of wine and cooking meat spread throughout the apartment and made Agnes' stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten since that morning because she had been so busy working and Henri, who was flitting around the kitchen with as much ease as a professional chef, muttering french under his breath, was making the most wonderful supper she thought she had ever smelled. "It looks good," she said from behind him, giggling as she saw him leap into the air, startled, and smack his hand to his heart. "Merde Agnes," he cried, "you frightened me!"

"Sorry, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Can I help?"

"No," he said decisively, "tonight I am going to treat you. Maybe next time."

"You think there'll be a next time?" she asked as Henri's eyes darkened and he gazed at her intensely. "I would like it very much, yes," he said as he pulled her towards him.

"Me too."

"Good. Then it is settled." He paused for a moment, his eyes never leaving hers, before he gestured towards the table. "Dinner is nearly ready so if you want to sit down…"

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I suppose dinner might take a little while longer," he smirked.

When it was over Agnes found herself sitting on a settee and watching Henri as he knelt behind an ornate gramophone; she had never seen anything like it in a home and only once in the store and she marvelled both at the intricacy of it and at the dexterity with which he lifted the needle; as she watched him she remembered the feel of his hands in her hand and on her face and waist and she shivered. Moments later he joined her and, digging around in his pocket, offered her a cigarette. The music which he left playing in the background filled Agnes with a sense of wonder and she couldn't help but ask about it and listen, fascinated, when he explained the story to her. Henri found that her interest in the opera deepened his feelings for her, that it put her entirely in contrast with women like Ellen Love; her appreciation for it set her apart - not even Valerie had truly loved it like he had but he thought that perhaps, if he could just spirit Agnes away and show her how opera was really meant to be experienced, he could open up a whole new world to her.

As they talked he relished the ease with which joked as she began to open up to him, teasing him gently, and he shifted, leaning in closer to her and turning to face her, watching the way that her face lit up as she smiled and eagerly taking every spare second to observe her, even when she was looking past him into the distance. It was too much, he decided, for her to be sitting so close to him without being in his arms and so, when Agnes' eyes met his and he read in them what he too was feeling, he kissed her. He needed to be able to devote himself to her so he put his cigarette out quickly and returned to the gorgeous woman in front of him, deftly removing the pins from her hair and letting it tumble around her shoulders, freed of the bun which she kept it in all day long. She looked much younger with it like that, much less constrained, and it made Henri think of what she might look like in the mornings. "You are quite beautiful, you know that?" he asked, before capturing her lips in his again. "You want this? Are you sure?" Agnes was his English ingenue and the last thing he wanted with anyone, let alone with her, was to do something that they didn't want. He was, like he had told her before, very good at waiting and the knowledge that Agnes returned his feelings was enough for him at present. If she had said no then he would have been happy to kiss her one last time and accompany her home. But she didn't, and instead she kissed him back passionately and settling deeper into the cushions as Henri held her to him, one of his large hands tangled in her hair and the other resting on her waist. Agnes was astounded by how viscerally her body reacted to Henri and, without thinking, she clutched at his back with one hand, wrapping the other around his neck and cupping his head with it; she had worried, at first, that she wouldn't be very good at it, but as soon as he started kissing her all rational - and irrational too, it seemed - thought had fled and the only thing Agnes could think of was how she could possibly get closer to him.

Somehow, during their kisses, she managed to undo his waistcoat and slip it off his shoulders and she found her fingers tugging desperately at his bow tie, leaving it hanging around his neck. As she struggled with the buttons of his shirt Henri moved his lips down to her neck, kissing his way along her jaw and pressing them to the place where her pulse fluttered under her skin and she gasped; his shirt came half undone and she slid her hands inside, marvelling at the muscles which flexed under his smooth skin and feeling a sense of triumph at the groan which she elicited from him before he shifted, tugging her onto his lap and wrapping her in his arms before picking her up and carrying her to his bedroom. He laid her down on the bed and she sat up, focusing instead on his shirt buttons and not on the unfathomable look in his eyes as he watched her; with a flourish she pushed his shirt off his shoulders and he tugged it out from his waistband, throwing it to one side casually. "Mine don't come off as easily," she said wryly as he kissed her again.

"It's alright. It will be like… unwrapping a present," he smirked as he pulled her to her feet, unfastening her dress and slipping it from her shoulders, leaving it to lie on the floor. He removed her corset-cover, petticoats and drawers quickly and unlaced the corset which she was wearing, still amazed at the clothes which women wore every day and how uncomfortable they must be, before he finally had Agnes standing in front of him in just her chemise. Henri ran his hands down her arms before pulling her to him once again and peppering kisses all over her warm skin. "Ma chère Agnes," he murmured as they moved to his bed, "tu es tellement belle."

The next morning Agnes woke to a beam of sunlight which crept through the curtains and shone directly on her face; for a moment she forgot where she was but, seconds later, she saw Henri beside her and smiled. She lay in bed for a while, just enjoying being so utterly warm and comfortable, before she delicately lifted the covers to clamber out and see if she could remember where his bathroom was.

"Where have you been?" he asked when she returned, dressed in her chemise which she had rescued from the floor by the bed.

"Nowhere very interesting."

"Everything about you is interesting," he joked.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"I would." Suddenly he beckoned her. "Come here."

"Why?" Henri laughed at the coquettish grin she flashed him and he pouted. "Because you are too far away for my liking."

She took one step forward. "Is this close enough?"

"Maybe a little closer would be better."

Another step. "Now?" He shook his head and she took another. "What about now?"

"It is a little bit better I suppose," he replied, "but you're not close enough yet."

Agnes reached the end of the bed and crossed her arms as she looked down at him, straying dangerously close to laughing as she thought how much like a petulant child he looked. "If you want me any closer you'll have to get me yourself."

He pushed himself to his knees and pulled her so that she too was kneeling on the bed. "I think I can do that," he whispered as he kissed her before tugging her chemise over her head. "You won't need this though."


	5. Chapter 5

Agnes was curled up against Henri's warm body, blissfully happy, when a stray beam of sunlight landed on her face, disturbing her from her sleep; she blinked, floating for a wonderful moment between waking and sleep, before all but leaping to her feet and scrambling for her clothes.

"Agnes," a sleepy voice behind her drawled, "come back to bed."

"I can't," she replied as she scoured the room for her stockings, "I'll be late to work."

"So?" Henri rolled over onto his side and watched her as she flitted around his room, hair tumbling over her slim shoulders in gorgeous disarray. "Wouldn't you rather stay here?" His teasing question elicited a scathing look shot at him over her shoulder as she retrieved her corset from where it was hanging over the back of a chair and he grinned. "Of course I would rather stay here," she said as she struggled to wrap it around herself, "but this is the third time this week I've nearly been late for work."

"Come here." She eyed him warily and he tutted. "Agnes, you will be even later if you do not let me help you." Extracting himself from the tangled covers he perched on the edge of the bed and deftly laced her corset up. "I do not understand why you women wear these," he muttered, "you're beautiful enough without them."

"Me neither," she said before laughing her endearing laugh, a throaty chuckle which always sounded as if she was too nervous to fully commit to laughing.

"I wish you would stay with me Agnes," he pouted once she was dressed and standing in the doorway. She crossed the room quickly and pecked him once on the lips. "I wish I could stay too… but I can't, so I'll see you in the store."

It was a few days before he asked for her again - between the windows he had finished and the other displays he had to oversee he was busier than he thought possible and he barely had any time to stop by Fashion, let alone to stop and ask for Miss Towler to accompany him. Harry was trying once again to outdo himself and had somehow convinced Ernest Shackleton to appear at the store which meant that Henri, as per usual, had to create a whole lot of advertisement for it. Despite this, every time he saw her, they smiled at each other and his heart did a little leap; it was strange and he wasn't accustomed to it - the last time his body had reacted the same way to a woman it had been with Valerie… But he couldn't let himself dwell on Valerie - she had gone to America and they were both happy. Besides he had Agnes now.

Still eventually he bowed to temptation and retrieved her from Miss Ravilious' clutches, spiriting her away to the back room which served as his cluttered office.

"If only Miss Bunting hadn't given up all hope," she murmured, her eyes fixed on some distant part of the room while he watched her, amazed by her capacity to care. "Life is full of 'if onlys'," he said, shifting in his chair as he itched to bury himself in his work; he knew very well that not even this would deter Harry from his plans, and he was already behind. "I should be here, I could be there… This path or that path…" Valerie or Agnes, his mind supplied, forcing him to question his decisions once again; he had sworn to himself not to dally with Agnes and yet he had, and every passing day found himself more and more in her thrall. There were, however, too many things that contrived to keep them apart. He hadn't told Valerie… He had no idea how Agnes really felt… He hadn't told Harry either… The most serious problem though was that Agnes was beginning to gain success and recognition; Henri knew instinctively that she wouldn't give that up just for him - she had always been driven and if, in some distant future which filled him both with terror and delight, he was mad enough to propose to her… she would have to leave the store. There was also the issue of her relationship with Victor; it hadn't escaped Henri's notice that the young Italian boy was desperate to have Agnes as his own. "Do we know what we really want?" he asked. Did he know what he wanted? He supposed the answer was no.

Agnes picked up on the hidden meaning in his words; it was almost impossible not to and she panicked for a moment. "Us being… well… complicates things, doesn't it?" She was almost certain that, if she didn't love Henri now, she could very easily do so in the future, and he seemed so distant that she worried he was about to end everything between them. Instead of an affirmative and a firm reply that they were finished he smiled slightly and gazed at her with those unreadable eyes before lifting one hand and caressing her cheek. Something mysterious passed between them, something not even Agnes was sure she understood, before a knock at the door startled them; Miss Ravilious, coming to find Agnes, had interrupted them and Agnes wished they had had the foresight to close the door. This could ruin everything for them.

Anna Ravilious wondered, for the split second that she watched the oblivious pair from the door, whether anyone would look at her the same way Agnes and Mr Leclair looked at each other; but no, she had always been very careful never to let anything like that happen. Marriage would destroy her career and she relished her independence too much; it was far safer to stay a single suffragette than start a family - at least until women had the equality they so deserved.

When she returned, with Agnes in tow, to Fashion, the girl assured her that she didn't love Mr Leclair and Anna nearly sighed - it was so obvious that it was nearly written across her face. Mr Leclair barely concealed it either; something was going to get those two in trouble but it wouldn't be her.

What she wouldn't give for someone like Mr Leclair… He, at least, seemed to understand women were not merely men's playthings. Or perhaps he didn't… she had seen him with that Parisian woman who had visited and after all, he _was_ French. But maybe, if someone like him looked at her the same way he had looked at Agnes… maybe then she might reconsider her stance on marrying.

When Valerie suddenly materialised in his office, the space where Agnes had always reigned supreme, Henri was stunned. Her reappearance reminded him of everything they had shared together and his memories of her flooded back, bringing with them a wave of love which hit him like a punch to his gut. He could tell Valerie wasn't impressed with the English girl and he quickly realised that Agnes knew it too; she offered to finish the window before he could ask her to stay, to introduce her properly to Valerie and work out the mess that they suddenly found themselves in. "The window is all yours Miss Towler," he said, realising as Agnes vanished that she thought he had chosen Valerie. He was torn between being grateful that she was perceptive enough to leave, allowing him to catch up with Valerie, and chasing after her, telling her that that initial bout of love was nothing more than familiarity and that it faded almost instantly; he loved Valerie now because they had shared so much together, it was the love of similar minds and similar people, the love of old friends and not the love of someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

But when Valerie offered him a job in New York… No matter what he might have with Agnes, he had to accept that she could do better than him; they could never marry anyway - he refused ever to be responsible for taking away her freedom to work - and this could be exactly the thing he needed. Harry would kick up a fuss but he would ignore him… Valerie's arguments were so convincing that Henri decided this: if Agnes fought for him he would stay. If not, he would leave for New York, promise to Harry be damned.

He was half expecting her to fight for him when he told her he had accepted a job in New York; had had a traitorous part of his mind which was waiting for her to rail against him, asking him how he could abandon her like that, why he was leaving her when he loved her, questioning whether he loved her at all. That was what Valerie would have done, even if it was partly in jest. But of course he was wrong, Agnes was so different from Valerie and he knew it… Perhaps then it was all wishful thinking, waiting for her to tell him she loved him so that he could promise to stay in England for her.

Maybe she would have done if he had told her in private and not in the store; as the words left his mouth he knew it was a bad idea and yet he couldn't stop himself. He tried to explain himself to Miss Ravilious, saying, "She's very much her own woman, I understand that," and he hoped maybe she might tell Agnes that in the future. He couldn't, he _could not_ turn this opportunity down just because he was desperately hoping that Agnes might forgo all of her independence in order to be with him. At least this way they could comfort themselves with the vague notion that it was not of their doing, that it had to be that way and that they weren't choosing specifically to be apart. Although, of course, they were. Well he was.

And when Agnes asked if it was with Miss Maurel's company, he knew what she suspected; this was only furthered when she talked about his relationship with Valerie. Of course he and Valerie would probably end up together but it didn't mean he wouldn't always have a soft spot for Agnes, whose innocence had captured his heart. A few stray tears fell from her wet lashes and he wondered whether he should take it all back, tell Valerie he wasn't coming and that whatever there was between them was over. He never quite understood why he always went back to her anyway; he loved her and yet she treated him with nothing more than fondness. It wasn't really what he wanted but he could never find the strength to extract himself from the grip she had on him. "Thank you Agnes," he said with a sigh, resigning himself to his new life. "It's been an honour to get to know you." And it had been, it had been wonderful. She was so strong, so brave, and yet so kind and intelligent; she floored him and surprised him every day and the knowledge that it had been he that she had let into her heart and bed was humbling; he didn't know what it was that she had seen in him but if he could find anyone in America who was half of what Agnes Towler had been then he would be in serious danger. He watched her as she stared resolutely at the floor, refusing to even acknowledge the few tears that she was shedding, and he blinked back tears. He would miss her so, so much and he was so close to wavering. But Agnes was being strong, for herself and for him, and she knew that this was best and that he had to go so he had to see it through.

And then she said, "Goodbye Henri," and walked away and he was overcome with a terrible sense of loss, feeling all the pain of losing the best thing that had ever happened to him. As he stared at the empty space where she had just stood - because watching her retreating back would be far too painful - he realised why he loved her more than he loved Valerie, why this pain was more intense than the pain he had felt with Valerie: both women had left him standing alone but Valerie had done it for herself and then proceeded to pick him up again at will. Agnes was honest and kind; not only had she done it for herself and for him, but he knew that saying goodbye to Agnes meant saying goodbye forever. He doubted that she would really let him into her heart once again.

Valerie was familiar and easy to be with; she had been his friend for so long that she knew he was hurting. He understood that her way of comforting him was to pull him into her bed and show him that, in her own special way, she loved him.

But it wasn't Valerie's love that he wanted and it wasn't uncommon for him to close his eyes and pretend she was someone else, someone who was very far away and probably dreaming of that Italian by now.

When Valerie left him he was strangely relieved; no longer did he have to pretend to himself that this was what he wanted. He had thought she might erase the traces which Agnes had left on him, the feel of her against him and her hair in his hands; had thought she might be able to remove the memories of her, to stop him from thinking of her whenever he saw some flowers or passed by a particularly beautiful shop window. He had thought wrong.

So when Valerie fled to Germany he followed her. There were two things he had to do in Europe. One was to sort out what had happened with her new beau while the other…

That was far more personal. But it would have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Henri was hit by a wave of nostalgia as he entered Selfridges; the bright lights were reflected a hundred times in a hundred gleaming glass counters and the whole store shone like Heaven. Everything was so familiar and he wondered how he had ever thought that New York would be better. All he wanted to do was to search the whole store for Agnes and he was heading towards Fashion when he saw Harry, who beckoned him towards the lift which led to his office; with a sigh he headed straight through the myriad counters and left the shop floor.

Agnes was happy, she had been wonderfully, blissfully happy since she had been summoned to Mr Selfridge's office and told that she was going to Paris; when she had returned she had been given Henri's old job and, although it was taking her a long time to get used to it - and she still didn't think that she was anywhere near as good as Henri had been - the fact that this opportunity was even open to her filled her days with joy. It wasn't until she saw a dark head which reminded her of Henri vanishing around a corner that she realised something had been missing.

Well, she sighed as she hurried after the mysterious man, maybe it wasn't the first time she had noticed that.

He disappeared and she turned around, giving up and returning to work; she had chased vaguely familiar men down streets before, even when she had been working in Paris, and she had told herself that she was finished. In the evenings, when she had nothing else to do, she had amused herself by imagining that Henri had returned to London and, finding that she was no longer at Selfridges, had stormed into Mr Selfridge's office, demanding to know where she had gone. Her daydreams had become so frequent and so elaborate that she had seen Henri on street corners, loitering under a shelter as he smoked a cigarette, or at dinner, smiling as he handed in his coat; no matter how many times she had told herself that she was being ridiculous she had continued to do it and it had taken a long time for her to accept that he wasn't coming back for her. She had said goodbye to him and he had gone to find Valerie; she thought she had finally accepted that and stopped chasing after phantoms but obviously she was wrong.

Henri's heart almost stopped when he saw Agnes approaching him; he prepared himself for her to tell him, in her quiet voice, that she never wanted to see him again. Instead she hugged him and he clutched her tightly as she rested her head on his chest. Now that he was back, he would never let her go.

The sun drifted in through the windows of the tea shop, falling gently on Agnes; she looked so similar to how she had before that Henri found it difficult to believe he had been away for five years. But then, of course, she was different too; she followed the fashions of Paris and had lost the awful black dresses that she used to wear; instead she wore something far more elegant and her hair was gathered in an elaborate plait at the back. His Agnes had grown up and she had grown up without him.

He had half expected her to make a fuss when he told her Harry wanted him back; most other women, worried that they were about to be bested and fired, would have done but not she. They had no reason other than that they refused to share their territory; he and Agnes had… After what he had done, it wouldn't have surprised him if she had said that she never wanted to see him again. She surprised him yet again as she pleaded with him, telling him that she needed him there. It was a blatant lie of course, he had seen the store and it looked wonderful but, if she wanted him to work with her, he would.

Henri tucked her arm through his as they left the tea shop and, although she looked up at him with a tiny frown puckering her forehead, she didn't remove it. They walked through the streets in a companionable silence until they reached the Tube station which would take Agnes home; all of a sudden Henri remembered the times before when the journey home hadn't been where they had parted and he wished everything could just fall back into place. It couldn't though because he had shattered whatever nebulous, undefined thing they had had when he left; he smiled at Agnes as he whispered, "Au revoir," and bent down to press a kiss to her cheek.

Agnes felt her heart sink as he leant in to kiss her goodbye; she knew exactly what was going to happen and she knew that it would destroy any sort of self-control that she thought she had over herself. Unfortunately she was hemmed in by the crowd and she couldn't skitter backwards, no matter how much she wanted to; as Henri's lips brushed her cheek she repeated one word over and over in her head: Valerie. It didn't matter that he was here now, or that whatever he had had with Valerie seemed to be finished; he had had the choice five years ago and he had chosen his old lover. Agnes didn't blame him, anyway she had let him go, she just wished it was easier for her to forget everything that had happened between them. "Goodbye Henri," she stammered before fleeing into the crowd.

As Henri watched her go he sighed, burying his hands deep in his pockets and trying to overcome the feeling of loss which had just overwhelmed him. Without being sure of where his feet were taking, he found himself in one of the London parks, walking underneath the starry sky. He hunched over, avoiding the drunks that stumbled past him every so often, and let his feet lead him through the trees and along the path.

It was Agnes who had first introduced him to walking in parks at night; she had told him about how she would creep out of the house she shared with George and wander through the tiny park near their home whenever she couldn't sleep. "Everything seems much clearer under the stars," she had said in her husky voice one evening and, that night, Henri had woken up to a small hand shaking his shoulder. "I thought you should see it properly," she had whispered. "London's much nicer by night." He couldn't remember what they had talked about, just that nothing else really mattered because they were there together, gazing at the inky sky and ambling through the gloom, arms interlinked as they relished the silence that surrounded them. Eventually it became a habit and, once they had dressed again, they would creep out of the house and follow whatever path took their fancy when they reached the park.

"It's a much grander park here than I used to go to," Agnes had said one night.

"I never used to come here," he admitted. "I still don't."

"Why not? If I had somewhere this beautiful so close I would come every day," she said, incredulous.

He smirked at her and squeezed her tightly. "Because, ma cherie, it isn't nearly as beautiful in the day as it is in the starlight when you're beside me." Agnes let out a low chuckle and rested her head against his shoulder, letting the heat of his body seep through the fabric between them and warm her, keeping the cold night air at bay. "Oh you're just saying that," she murmured with a smile, even as Henri kissed her again and her eyes shone in the moonlight.

It was so hard for him to pretend that it wasn't killing him to see Agnes with Victor; he could barely keep his frustration in and, since Valerie and her beau had vanished and left him to blame back in America, he had too many things irritating him to act rationally. He was leaving, preparing to go and meet the investigator, when he saw Agnes waiting outside the doors. In that moment he remembered every time he had met her there, whisking her away to restaurants and plays before taking her home and, against his better judgement he asked her what she was doing.

As soon as the words 'Mister Colleano' left her mouth his mood darkened and he sighed. "You could do better," he replied, wondering if she would ever realise that his idea of better was him; although it had to be after this thing with Valerie had been sorted out - if he ever found her, of course. It wasn't fair for her to be so interested in him when she had Victor, who followed her like a stray puppy, always panting after her and pursuing her. Why was the world playing with him; why did it have to give him one woman who barely cared about him and one who cared far too much? He had never thought that it would be easy to regain Agnes' trust but he hadn't thought that she would settle for the classless Italian; out of everyone in the world, Victor Colleano deserved her the least. That's what she was doing, there was no question about it: she was settling.

After being thrown unceremoniously into a freezing cell and questioned for hours about his time in Germany; an ordeal which involved a lot of threats and what Henri was fairly certain could count as verbal abuse, the door of his cell was yanked open and a frowning guard appeared in the doorway. "Someone here to see you." He hauled him down the corridor and thrust him into the visiting room, where Agnes sat on the other side of the table, her face pale with worry.

It was far too hard for him to see her there, her teeth nibbling at her lips and her voice low and thrilling with fear; she was his only visitor and, although he knew Harry was away, he had been half hoping that someone would send him a message and he would appear like a benevolent knight. Harry was a problem solver - well, generally - and if anyone could get Henri out of this it was him. The fact that Agnes, even after he had implied that she thought he was guilty, cared enough about him to come and see him in this hell-hole… Well it only made things harder. Especially when the first thing she asked him to do was call her by her name; he'd been trying so hard to avoid that, to separate them and let her make her own choices and then she undid all of his efforts in one sentence. He sat down and, as he answered her questions and explained what had happened, his eyes were drawn to her fidgeting fingers. Loss flooded him as he gazed at the ring on her finger; he spent thirty seconds trying to convince himself that it was a mistake and that she had just put a ring on the wrong hand before he gave up. There was no way Agnes owned a white gold ring. The most frustrating thing about it was that it was a beautiful one too.

The part of his mind which wasn't immediately burning with sorrow registered distant surprise when he realised she was engaged; he had never thought that she would be prepared to give up everything she had worked for. After all, that was why he had left in the first place; otherwise it would probably be his ring on her hand. Better not to think of anything like that though; Agnes had made her choice, had chosen Colleano, and Henri was in jail. He wasn't naïve enough to think that he would get out of this: Harry was away - not that he could do anything much anyway - and that weaselly Thackeray had accused him of being a spy. The only person who could clear his name was Valerie and there was no way she would do that - not only would it incriminate her in the theft which had happened just before he had left New York, but if the private investigators couldn't track her down then it was unlikely anyone else could.

Better then to die a false traitor and leave Agnes to her restaurant manager; he couldn't have her anymore even if she had chosen him.


End file.
